


What Crowley wanted

by HurrahForSmut, TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Eventual Smut, F/M, Gratuitous Swearing, Neck Kissing, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sex, Sexual Content, Spanking, alpha!crowley, omega!reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-25 10:06:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7528549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HurrahForSmut/pseuds/HurrahForSmut, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG/pseuds/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yeah sure, no one got cancer anymore. But only the lucky few got to have children. That’s why Omegas were valuable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Obedience. Surrender. Breathe. Submit.

**Author's Note:**

> I am fascinated by the a/b/o trope; this is my first attempt at writing it. Sorry I have bent the 'rules' significantly: there is no knotting, endless buckets of sperm, or mpreg in my 'verse. Apologies to the purists.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At least you’d had the decontamination shower and relative privacy.

Yeah sure, no one got cancer anymore. But only the lucky few got to have children. That’s why Omegas were valuable.

When the anti-cancer serum became available, everyone who could afford it got inoculated. The only side effect was a minor cold and stomach ache that lasted a few days. People who didn’t get the injection got the flu like symptoms too, but it was all so mild, so unremarkable that hardly anyone noticed or commented at the time. But the serum wasn’t a harmless collection of dead cells. It was a living virus that affected the very DNA of everyone who came into contact. And the long-term effects weren’t obvious for years. First, birth rates started levelling, then dropping. Dropping dramatically.

The kids who were born showed the second generation effects. After puberty, they presented in one of three ways. 90% were ‘Beta’. Almost all women were Beta and most men were too. Betas were normal in almost every way, except with low fertility. 8-9% were ‘Alpha’ - men demonstrating more sex drive and general aggression/leadership - but almost completely sterile unless they mated with a compatible Omega. The useless fucking delicate flowers that were Omega, all female.

Obedience. Surrender. Breathe. Submit.

The world’s population had halved and then halved again. Women had never been regarded as full citizens in the pre-Alpha era, but things were much worse afterwards. In the chaos, Omegas were reviled, courted, sacrificed and locked away until the Central Government Authority came up with a plan to protect and re-stock them. As soon as their status became clear, Omegas were sent to government-run sanatoriums, kept separate from the general population except for the Omega rooms at breeding hotels and the hideousness that was Matching.

To maintain a population, each woman has to have 2.1 children and access to modern medicine. Now that government had stabilised, healthcare wasn't an issue, but the birth-rate was still at extinction levels: approximately 1.3 live births per woman. But Omegas matched to a compatible Alpha could easily have 5-10 children.

Sometimes Omega status wasn’t clear until the first heat, which could present anywhere from 16 to 25. _Your_ presentation hadn’t come until you were 23, secure in your assignment as a Beta. You were happily working in a government lab on the scientific project of the decade: harnessing the Omega pheromone to increase Beta fertility.

Your experiment results started to skew from established norms, though you checked and double-checked the results, re-calibrating your pheromone reader. Your placebo group’s pheromone readings were off the charts. How was this possible? An Alpha supervisor had come to look over your lab, recognised your pre-heat scent and immediately pressed the contamination button, leaving you locked down in an underground lab to suffer through your first heat alone. Later, you found out that the supervisor was bonded to an Omega of his own, otherwise you might have had to the additional torment of a forced mating. Some Omegas were seriously injured if left unguarded during their first heat, as multiple Alphas zeroed in on their scent and fought for the right to mate.

Obedience. Surrender. Breathe. Submit.

At least you’d had the decontamination shower and relative privacy. Sarah, your first dorm mate at the sanatorium, had come into heat at the bakery where she worked and had had to live out both days of heat in a building with a plate glass window. She’d tried to stick paper to the front window to give herself some dignity, but hadn’t really been in much condition to reattach the sheets that had fallen down by the second day. Apparently, the bakery attracted a loyal Alpha clientele whilst it was closed. When it re-opened they still came in to enjoy the scent of Omega and once that was gone, the memories of a heated Omega lying on the floor in a pool of her own juices, ripe and ready for anyone willing to smash the glass and beat their way through the six Beta guards armed with cattle prods who stood outside. It didn’t bear thinking about.

The sanatorium wasn’t a _prison_. Omegas were to be cosseted and kept happy. They just weren’t allowed to do anything REAL whilst they waited for bonding. Their work was to go into heat regularly so their pheromones could be used to increase the fertility of Betas at breeding hotels. It was degrading, but as you were usually only semi-conscious for most of your heat you were mercifully unaware of most of it. All you had to do was lie in a room and sweat whilst an extractor fan swept your scent out to the rooms of the breeding hotel. At some point, you’d be so overcome with sexual desire that you’d start pawing at the handlers, futilely masturbating and attempting to find some relief by humping furniture. That was when your pheromones were most powerful. Your face burned when you thought about it.

Obedience. Surrender. Breathe. Submit.

The hotel handlers were professional, even kind, but the whole thing was just too awful to think about much. Handlers were all Beta women, many with medical degrees. You’d wondered why such well-qualified people would want the work, which was essentially shepherding near-comatose damp sheep around their pens, but one day you’d heard two handlers gloating over being exposed to constant high doses of Omega pheromones, increasing their chance of pregnancy. All they had to do was keep you hydrated in your heat and help you to shower afterwards, it wasn’t like you were violent. No, you only begged them to have sex with you.

God. Jesus. Fuck.

Quarterly, Omegas were given the ‘opportunity’ to find a compatible partner at a Matching session. This entailed sitting VERY still in a ‘controlled environment’ (aka cage), whilst un-bonded Alphas wandered about staring. Embarrassing and AWKWARD, especially when you noticed a former colleague or school friend stalking around looking predatory. You were fucking meat on display.

Obedience. Surrender. Breathe. Submit.

What else could be expected from a government sponsored attempt to find fertile pairs? A compatible pair could produce more children, and children were what everything was all about. When you’d thought of yourself as Beta, you’d considered this corralled life to be completely acceptable for Omegas. They had a role to play; it was only right that they should share their fertility for the common good. Now that you were an Omega, it all felt wrong. And you missed your lab. Hell, you missed your life.

The one where you’d been able to eat hamburgers, go out dancing with friends, speculate over who was in love or could be in love, and ogle cute guys. Love wasn’t a consideration for Omegas. They had bonding, duty and, if they were lucky, children. Those were their callings. Your callings.

Fuck it.

Your life now consisted of having your blood tested and your temperature taken regularly, swimming at an indoor pool, tennis in the courtyard or jogging the indoor running track. Re-reading the same books at the library. Compulsory group therapy. Meditation sessions. Healthy meals and a healthy body! No smoking, no alcohol and minimal outside contact.

Sarah had come back to visit a couple of times since her bonding and honestly, she seemed happy enough. She was clearly ecstatic to be pregnant again but the way she described her Alpha was creepy. She worshipped the guy. He was the leader of the regional council, but to hear Sarah talk, he was a fucking senior statesman, holding the fate of the entire human race in his hands. Omegas were like that with their bonded mates. It was ridiculous, and it made you feel nauseous to think you’d ever be like that yourself.

When you tried to talk to Sarah about it, she was half angry with you, half shy. Apparently you’d _understand_ when it was your turn. But it was never your turn.

You’d been stuck in the sanatorium for 18 months now, and you were going insane for lack of mental stimulation. You had to admit that the stereotypes about dumb Omegas were depressingly accurate. These people were not geniuses. Some of them could do a capable watercolour or sketch, but they weren’t real artists. One of the girls had played the guitar and sung competently, but she was bonded before you really got to know her. Hardly any of the women had started a tertiary degree and only one or two tried to complete it once their Omega status became clear. They knew the high school version of how the Alpha/Beta/Omega split worked, but it was all surface material. If you tried to discuss your work with the protein molecules that made up DNA, you were talking to a brick wall. Smiling, compliant brick walls who were patient and kind to you, but completely uncomprehending.

Obedience. Surrender. Breathe. Submit.

The head of the medical unit lent you his journals and even subscribed to some new ones for you, but you were trapped in a gilded cage with no way of getting back to your beloved lab and doing real work. You missed the cut and thrust of intellectual life. The excitement of fail-safe experimentation, where each step could be THE breakthrough that allowed the human race to reclaim control of fertility.

Obedience. Surrender. Breathe. Submit.

You thought of your sister and her grief at her continued infertility. As immediate family, she had the right to ask for a concentrated heat pheromone session with you at a breeding hotel. And you’d agreed to do it when she summoned the courage to make the formal request. It was awful to have to listen to her and James having sex in the room next to you on the first day, and humiliating to know that they were going to hear you groaning in your heat. And it hadn’t even fucking worked. She hadn’t visited since, shrinking away from the enforced intimacy as much as you had. A polite thank-you note for your help and then nothing for six months until she sent a generic Christmas card and finally 3 months after that a gushing phone message to say she’d finally won the lottery and was going to have IVF treatment. You knew you’d bumped her up the list because women related to Omegas had an increased chance of success and you were glad for her. Jesus fuck, let it work. Let some good come out of this misery.

Mediation helped you to keep calm and control your frustrations. Breathe. Submit. Let go of your sense of self. Patience. Obedience. Surrender. Breathe. Submit. Your scientist mind knew that it was logical for you to not beat your head against the bars, so you tried to co-operate with the system. There was no escape from your fate, and you weren’t even sure you wanted to escape. Omegas owed the rest of the human race whatever they could give. Obedience. Surrender. Breathe. Submit.

Your parents lived several jumps away and kept their distance once your status was declared. Your mom had made something of a media personality out of being a Beta who’d had three unassisted successful pregnancies. She gave advice on what foods to eat and wrote a self-help book on the power of a positive attitude. When one of her children turned out to be Omega, it took some of the wind out of her sails. Positive thinking had little to do with it when you breathed in the same air as an Omega every day.

Breathe. Fucking submit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Dr norabombay for her PhD in Alphaverse: Alphas, Betas, Omegas: A Primer (http://archiveofourown.org/works/403644/chapters/665489)
> 
> Please leave a comment if you have any ideas on where this is going. I have my own plot mapped out in my mind, but I'm open to suggestions. Or encouragement.


	2. Atypical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Look, full fat ice-cream with real processed sugar”. It would have been rude not to take it, so you accepted it from his outstretched hand.

The medical director, Dereck, is a friend of sorts. As much as a busy Beta with responsibilities could be said to be friends with an insignificant Omega. He’d known you briefly in your other life as a researcher and sympathised slightly with your predicament: from a bright graduate hand-picked for the prestigious Fertility Lab, to a not particularly successful Omega.

Your pheromones hadn’t helped your sister to conceive. You hadn’t found a compatible Alpha, despite attending three Matchings. You didn’t even conform to the ‘normal’ Omega type. Your natural hair colour was dark. Your eyes were brown so you didn’t match the typical blue-eyed, blonde haired look characteristic of Omegas in your region. You were taller than usual, too. Your cycles were slower and you displayed other non-typical traces in your blood work. Some of this was no doubt due to the hormones you’d been exposed to through your work, but the rest was down to you being a contrary person.

Dereck and the sanatorium director kindly told you that you were ‘atypical’, nothing to worry about. But you did worry a bit. Because the rumour was that Omegas who didn’t find a compatible bond partner often ended up being moved out of the comfortable sanatorium and into brothels servicing unbonded Alphas. As frustrating as you found life in the sanatorium, it seemed a lot better than being a fuckhole for every horny Alpha in the region.

If you were a better Omega, you wouldn’t have so many concerns. If you could wholeheartedly devote yourself to wanting an Alpha bond, you’d probably do better at finding a compatible mate. You’d seen other girls fall from sitting to kneeling at Matchings. They’d obviously smelt something worth letting go for. Every Alpha who came near you smelt positively distasteful. Or was that something you did yourself? Refusing to let yourself fully submit. The idea of bonding was like a car accident you couldn’t look away from: horrifying but intriguing.

Pathetically mewing for an Alpha was embarrassing. And being tied forever to a man who only had to nod to make you do his bidding was scary. What if he was an arsehole? What if he was cruel? There was some dark humour in the concept that you wouldn’t care how badly you were treated because you’d only want to please him anyway. Make that black humour. Very black humour. Not that you were laughing.

The jogging track was never busy and there were large sections where it skirted the underground staff car park that did not have a security camera. As an Omega, privacy was a rarely granted luxury. You’d take it where you could, even if it meant pounding the track after dark with sweat running down your back.

Your hair was a tangled messy ponytail. When you were Beta, it was fine to cut it short and peroxide it bright white and frost it with colours to match the season. Now that you were Omega, you needed to conform. So it lay hot and sweaty down your neck. At least this sweat was just normal salty perspiration, not the slime that covered you in your heat. You could wash after a jog and feel clean, but you’d never be rid of the Omega stench and all that went with it.

You checked the driveway to the car park before you crossed it. You knew the director of the sanatorium wasn’t keen on his precious Omegas exercising too vigorously, and if one of the staff actually touched you with a car, the jogging track was likely to be shut down altogether. So you were careful at the two intersections to make sure that there was no possibility of an accident. It wouldn’t have been fair to get the whole thing closed just because of you. There were other Omegas who liked to power walk or lightly jog a couple of circuits. No one else liked to flat out run circuit after circuit like you. But it was the next best thing to meditation for calming you down and helping you release stress.

No cars or movement in the car park, so it was safe to cross. You kept up a punishing pace until you hit the back wall, slowed to a walk and checked again for any eyes. All clear.

Rounding the next corner, you picked up the pace, noticing the camera tracking your movement until you were out of its reach. You slowed for the second intersection, and then pulled up suddenly. Someone was standing on the car park driveway, shouting into a mobile phone.

“Incompetent cockweasel!”, he bellowed into the mouthpiece. “Must I do EVERYTHING myself? Kill the fuckers and make sure they stay dead this time.”

You couldn’t help grinning in appreciation. Everything in the sanatorium was so bland, it was fun to hear some colourful cursing. But you stayed in the shadows, hoping to remain unnoticed. Aggression was not a good sign.

“Hello, pet”, the man said, pocketing the phone and looking straight at you. Your breath caught in your throat and you took a step backwards. You’d always found Alphas to be arrogant smug bastards when you considered yourself Beta. Now as an Omega, you could add _dangerous_ to the list of reasons to avoid them. “Is that smile for me?”

 

You wanted to ask what he was doing here. You wanted to turn around and run in the other direction. But Omega obedience traits are strong, so you merely flattened yourself against the wall and nodded your head in an approximation of the correct greeting.

“Alpha,” you mumbled as softly as you could, keeping your eyes down and your body as still as possible. How could an Alpha be inside the sanatorium? It wasn’t allowed. Where were the guards, why wasn’t the siren howling? You took a quick peek up and down the long hallway. Nope. No one in sight but you and the man in the dark suit staring intently at you.

“Where are my manners? My name is Crowley and I have a little gift for you if you’ll step this way.” His dark eyes were boring into you and you couldn’t resist the Alpha voice. With leaden feet, you stepped forward. “Hurry up, pet, the security in this place is a nightmare, we haven’t got all day.”

You risked squinting between your eyelashes and were rewarded with the most gorgeous thing you’d seen in weeks. A raspberry ice cream in a cone!

He took a lick and offered you the cone, beckoning you forward with a slightly sinister smile.

“Look, full fat ice-cream with real processed sugar”. It would have been rude not to take it, so you accepted it from his hand and sniffed it gingerly, then took a careful bite.

God, it tasted like heaven! You avoided the spot he’d licked and took another bite. Hallelujah! It wasn’t the frozen yoghurt with natural sweetener that passed for ice cream in the cafeteria upstairs. It was the real deal. Nothing healthy about it. Actually, bugger hygiene, you ate the whole thing including the bit this Crowley fellow had licked. It was that good.

Crowley watched you devour the cone with a smirk. “Taste good, sweetheart? Plenty more where that came from.”

You looked at him properly. He wasn’t a huge man, only an inch or so taller than you, but his presence was out of proportion to his physical size. He wasn’t classically handsome or especially well built. His face wasn’t clean shaven. But he was all Alpha. That unmistakable confidence, those assured eyes; shrewd and used to command.

He was clearly here for his own purposes. Your best survival strategy was to give him what he wanted and get out of the way as quietly as possible.

“What do you want?” you hedged.

“Not a question I get asked often. But I can see you aren’t stupid, and I do have a simple request. I can give you anything _you_ want if you’ll give me this little thing.”

Anything you wanted? Ha! Not possible. No one could reverse your status as an Omega.

“You know you only have to ask,” you murmured looking at the floor. It was impossible for an Omega to refuse a direct command from an Alpha. That was part of the reason you were kept away from any uncontrolled exposure to them. The government didn’t want Omegas ‘wasted’ on incompatible Alphas. They only wanted fertile pairings.

“Now you intrigue me, my dear. What is it your little heart beats fast for? Do you want a kind Alpha to sweep you off your feet at the next Matching? Or would you sell your soul for another raspberry ice cream?”

You blushed. The stupid romantic stories of finding a ‘true match’ and bonding immediately to an Alpha were all some Omegas could talk about. They looked forward to falling under the spell of an Alpha able to give them babies. You looked forward to leaving the cloistered life of an unbonded Omega, not the complete submission that inevitably accompanied it. But so far all the Alphas you’d met had smelt like old socks or wet dog, so you hadn’t been even slightly tempted to accept a match.

“I only want to help you, sweet little Omega. All you have to do is avoid two weapons-grade plums,” his voiced darkened with anger and distaste, “who will be at the next Matching. They aren’t nice boys and they won’t treat you right. In fact, it could be downright dangerous to get mixed up with them. They are brothers. The runty one is blonde and the big one has shaggy hair. They dress appallingly. They hunt together, so you’ll see them together at this shindig. No matter what you smell, you need to resist.”

You gaped at him. Resist a Match? Was he mad? Even if you didn’t fall to your knees when a compatible Alpha walked past, your body would give you away. It wasn’t possible to hide the elevated heartbeat or the surge in oestrogen that your blood work would show. If you were strong enough to hold yourself steady on the outside, the inner chemistry of your hormones would betray you.

“What do you wish for, little Omega? I can give it to you.”

You gulped and choked out a single word… “Freedom”.

Whilst he had been talking to you, he’d been edging closer and suddenly he pounced, holding you firmly by your arms. “Let’s seal the deal, sweetheart! Freedom!” He sniggered. “A toast, a taste of freedom!” and he lowered his lips to yours.


	3. A Match made in…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don’t let yourself be condemned just because an impossible Alpha had uttered the word ‘freedom’

The kiss wasn’t sweet. You weren’t swept off your feet. His lips were chapped and his unshaven chin was bristly. Under other circumstances, you might even describe it as chaste. Not open mouthed or hungry. But you staggered away with your hand over your lips.

“Run away, little Omega,” Crowley called after you. “If you have any other secrets, now’s the time to retrieve them!”

You froze in your tracks and looked back. But there was no one at the crossroad now. You did what you had to do.

The next day, you woke feeling dizzy and dry-mouthed. The morning nurse noticed your elevated heart rate and called for more testing before you even had a chance to leave your room.

There were many questions. Many, many questions. The sanatorium director even played security footage of you running the night before. He complained that there had been a fault in the system that left 3 minutes unaccounted for and actually asked if you’d seen anyone. Acting confused was pretty easy. The whole ‘meeting a tall dark stranger’ thing was clearly impossible.

You felt fairly sure that you could fool the sanatorium director with a demure Omega façade, but it was harder to hide from science. Blood tests made the nursing staff purse their lips and type furiously into patient records. You kept quiet and repeated the Omega mantra to yourself, trying to breathe calmly and act docilely. Be a good Omega, maybe all of this will go away.

In the end, your so-called friend Dereck sat down with you and gave you The Talk.

“Kate, this isn’t working out. Your oestrogen levels are up but you aren’t showing any other pre-heat symptoms. You probably know better than me that this isn’t normal. Your case is just too complicated for us.” You diagnosed the real problem: he had Alpha bosses breathing down his neck. If anything went wrong on the medical side, he’d have to face their wrath. Given the choice between upsetting an Alpha or Omega… well, it was no contest.

“You run too much. You unsettle the other Omegas in group therapy with your questions. You aren’t happy here. We aren’t specialised enough for an atypical Omega like you. You are going to need to be transferred to… another centre.”

You looked into his eyes and immediately knew exactly what that centre would be. There was a faint flush of embarrassment in his cheeks and he patted your shoulder gently.

God.

**Think**  woman, don’t let yourself be condemned just because an impossible Alpha had uttered the word ‘freedom’.

You’d never tried to overtly use your Omega status before, but things were desperate. You stumbled to the floor and took up the submissive position, kneeling down completely, head lowered, hands flat on your thighs.

“Beta. Beta, please. Please don’t send me away. Give me more time. I can be good,” you whined.

Yep, that was a whine. With your eyes glued to the floor, you could only see Dereck’s shoes in front of you. You practically heard him exchanging glances with the nurse. A tear of shame crept down you face and splashed onto his left shoe. Being pathetic came easy when you were shit-scared.

It was hard, but not impossible, for a Beta to refuse a begging Omega. You didn’t dare look up, holding yourself completely still and waiting for his decision.

“I suppose I can recommend we wait a cycle before we make any permanent decisions,” he finally said. You wanted to do a fist punch, but instead you lowered yourself further.

“Thank you. I won’t let you down. Thank you.” You whispered, holding the Omega pose until both of them had left the room.

You had bought yourself some time, but you really needed to be more careful. The end was coming. If you didn’t get a Match soon, you were going to the whorehouse, strangers-offering-you-raspberry-ice-creams notwithstanding. First things first. You carefully unscrewed a panel in the bedroom wall.

For the next 10 days, you absolutely kept your head down. You spoke only when spoken to and tried to keep a soft smile on your face at all times. Sometimes your cheeks ached from trying to look relaxed and happy. Acting content gave you indigestion and a twitch in your eyebrow. The mantra ‘Obedience. Surrender. Breathe. Submit.’ was constantly on your lips. It was like you were saying the words in your sleep.

Eventually, Matching day rolled around. Dereck had reluctantly signed off on your attendance, noting that your hormone levels had stabilised and that all your reports were good. You nodded quietly when he told you and hoped you looked suitably excited, but not  _too_  keyed-up.

All the Omegas attending wore the same blue dress. Modestly long with a scooped neckline to show off any becoming chest blush that a Match might produce.

You’d watched other women find a Match and hoped you’d be able to produce something close to their reaction. Fear should get your heart racing. If your hormone levels didn’t surge in the correct way, your atypical standing would be a credible reason for low oestrogen. And your heat was coming up, which should remove all difficulties. You normally got desperate enough to beg Beta women for sex, so you’d certainly be able to handle mating with an actual Alpha male. Everyone knew they weren’t that picky. Hell, you might even bond for real if he bit you.

You’d always thought it was pitiful to see Omegas packing their bags before a Matching, saying their farewells because they were convinced that this time, they would meet ‘their' Alpha. But now you were one of those sad fools. Everything you owned was in your bag, including the contents of the wall panel. You sure as hell did not want to be coming back to the sanatorium. Your days here were numbered.

The Matching took place at the regional hall. Each Omega sat in a glass cubicle. The bullet-proof glass was vented at the front so that they could scent any Alpha who stood directly in front of them. The chair was deliberately placed close to the door at the back of the cubicle so there was room to drop to your knees without coming too close to the vents.

Alphas wandered about as if inspecting merchandise at an over-priced furniture store. Some of them liked to stand in front of the cubicles and radiate their Alpha-ness. Some  _wafted_  past, no doubt thinking themselves too good to be wasting time deliberately trying to impress an Omega. But you’d seen the way the room stilled when a girl knelt. You knew there was envy and desire in those eyes. The whole room seemed to darken when the Omega pointed out her partner, a cloud of anger and dissatisfaction emanating from the unchosen. And the smell… It was disturbing how much worse Alphas smelt when they were angry. Like low tide and rotting seaweed.

So now here you were, hooked up to a heart monitor with another sensor measuring your skin temperature. Normally you tried to keep your eyes studiously down to avoid eye contact. You never responded to the hisses and whispers of Alphas trying to get a reaction. If you didn’t twitch, they’d move on. But today you had to find someone to claim as a Match. You had agreed to sacrifice yourself for the greater good. But you weren’t going to prostitute yourself to be a vessel for random Alphas to empty their semen into.

So you batted your eyes and tried to assess the candidates as they walked past. Someone well-dressed. That was important; if you were going into servitude, let it be with a wealthy man who didn’t mind spending. Good shoes; someone with style. Someone who spoke nicely. Respect from an Alpha was unlikely, but someone who knew the words ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ would be a bonus.

The first two you mentally nicknamed ‘Blue Cheese’ and ‘Compost’. Then came a group who universally smelt so unpleasant you thought you might gag. What was that –  _eau de_  dead walrus?! Maybe you should call ‘Compost’ back? He’d worn decent shoes, and rotting vegetable matter wasn’t the WORST smell in the world.

And then. Jesus fuck. Along came a pair who didn’t actually smell bad at all. Both wearing similar work boots, denim trousers, and canvas jackets over outdoor shirts. You risked a glimpse at their faces and nearly fell off your chair in shock. They were the boys Crowley had described. The one he’d described as ‘runty’ could probably give Crowley 3-4 inches and the other was taller again. They’d stopped in front of you and where staring at you closely. The dark blonde raised an eyebrow and gave you a cocky look he probably practised in front of the mirror. He smelt of whiskey, leather and safety. The brother was brunette and seemed less brash but radiated sandalwood, honey and books.

You gripped the sides of your chair to stop yourself from moving. There was no point in trying to pretend you were not affected, you could hear the whirr of your monitors giving you away behind the door. And then, overwhelming the fragrance of the two men in front of you was another scent that you remembered well, even as you doubted that you’d ever met the man in the first place. Standing well back from the brothers he’d warned you about was Crowley. You hadn’t consciously smelt him that time in the car park, but you recognised his dark scent straight away – black coffee and burnt toast with a hint of something else behind. Not raspberry ice-cream.

You couldn’t help it, you looked straight out into their faces. The world stopped moving. Your vision narrowed. Shit, you weren’t going to have to fake this after all. All of them stepped forward and you slid, suddenly boneless, to kneeling on the floor, sitting on your heels. Classic submissive Omega pose. They were shouting and had their hands on the vents, uselessly trying to pry their way in. The angry words were muffled by the buzzing in your ears.

The shouting got louder and you knew that punches were being thrown. Omega instinct took over. Danger. Abase yourself. By the time the guards pulled you to your feet, you were practically kissing the floor.

Dereck was suddenly your friend again, triumphant that, under his guidance, another Match had occurred. He patted your hand reassuringly and asked which of the three men was your mate. The brothers had clearly been hit in the face and even Crowley looked mildly dishevelled. They all looked angry.

“Shut it, you witless cocksplats, the lady is trying to talk,” Crowley hissed. They were about to return fire when you pointed directly at Crowley. He openly gloated, all but clapping his hands together with joy. You weren’t sure if he was happy to be picked or ecstatic to see his rivals cut out.

Within minutes, he was in the back corridor, eyeing Dereck loading you into a wheelchair with great suspicion. “What’s wrong with her? Can’t she walk? Why are you touching her?” he barked at Dereck.

“She’s fine, just showing some pre-heat symptoms. You need to treat her gently until this is over.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, you gormless idiot. Give me the chair, I’ll take her from here.”

“Have you signed the paperwork? Do you have somewhere secure to take her? Has anyone given you the manual?” Dereck was doing his best to be officious but by was completely flustered by Crowley, who ignored him to bark orders into his phone. He seemed to be satisfied his instructions were being obeyed with sufficient speed and finally grabbed the papers Dereck was holding out.

“Well, bye, Kate. Come and visit us!” Dereck muttered. You noticed that he couldn’t meet your eye.

“Over my dead body!” snapped Crowley, shoving your chair through the loading dock door.


	4. Into Temptation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The name is Crowley. I’m Crowley. I am not any Alpha. Call me Crowley. And come here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowded House - Into Temptation  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j8U1gC2JilQ

Your eyes were watering and you weren’t sure if it was triumph or terror. Crowley had promised you freedom. But he was acting exactly like a territorial Alpha, revelling in winning an Omega of his very own and outwitting his competitors before they even knew that the prize was on offer. Only he didn’t seem especially happy with the actual prize, you. If anything, he seemed angry, brusquely shoving you in the direction of his open car door and climbing in impatiently after you.

You tried to make yourself as small as possible, nestling into the corner of the car with your knees drawn up to your body. The driver was locked away behind safety glass and the windows had been tinted for privacy. Crowley regarded you with a hard unwavering stare from the other side of the back passenger seat.

You couldn’t read his expression. This man was your Alpha? You weren’t sure what he was thinking, let alone how to appease him. You felt the need to show him that you could be what he wanted. You cast about for some way to demonstrate your… what, submission? Your stomach lurched. Already? It would be easier if he would give you a clue as to what to do.

Maybe the Omega pose would convince him that you were willing. If only he would speak kindly to you! Trembling, you lowered your knees to the seat and followed them with your hands so that they rested flat on your thighs. You didn’t dare look at him, staring at the leather seat and breathing out softly. “Alpha?”

“Stop,” he snapped. You froze in position. “The name is Crowley. I am not  _any_  Alpha. Call me Crowley. And come here.”

You crawled forward and he took you in his arms, drawing you nearer, cradling you close. Your head was on his chest when he leaned forward to smell your hair.

“You smell of lemon blossom and sunshine”, he murmured into your neck. “Are you real? Is this a trap? You’ve caught me, but  **I won’t. let you. go.** ”

You let out the breath you’d been holding and relaxed against his hard, warm body. He was difficult to read, but he didn’t seem to hate you.

After a while, he pushed you upright and set you back against the seat. “Stay close and try to sleep”. You obediently lowered your eyelids, but sleep was far away while he had one hand on your thigh. He absently flicked through emails on his phone, occasionally typing a short reply before returning his hand to your leg.

Normally a recently claimed Omega will automatically go into heat; yours was due in days anyway. Most Alphas will not delay it by demanding sex straight away because they want children. But according to sanatorium lore, they often required oral or anal sex immediately, as these would not stop heat from occurring. Your limited sexual experience was VERY straight. Very vanilla.  _Gulp._

It is dusk when you get out of the car. “Welcome home, little Omega”, Crowley said as he ushered you in the door. “Let me show you your room.”

He lead you down the corridor and stopped at the third door, letting you walk in first. There was a fireplace on the far wall, facing a large bed. Built-in cupboards line the wall punctuated by the door and opposite was a huge window, giving you a sweeping view down the lawn and over the forest that borders the property. Somewhere nearby a dog bayed and others answered it.

You shivered at the sound and turn to where he was lounging against the doorway. “Just my little security system. In here, you may do as you like. But you can’t leave the grounds. That would be dangerous. Do you understand?”

You nodded once, slightly mesmerised by how black his eyes seemed in the half light. “May I come in?” he whispered.

“Of course,” you replied. Suddenly oxygen seemed very short.

“Take off that dress. Let me see you.”

You fumbled for the back zip and turned mutely to present it to him. He rested a hand on your shoulder and slowly pulled it down. You stepped out of the dress, and he grabbed a handful of hair and pulled you back close to his body. You could feel his erection against your buttocks.

He twisted your head to one side and whispered fiercely into your ear, “Will you bow to me, bare your neck to me, be my obedient slave and never deny me?” One hand held you close, the other ghosted down your flank.

It was either fear or arousal that was coursing through your veins, making your legs shake and your chest tighten. Maybe both. You sank down and he loosened his grip on your hair as you turned to face him. On your knees, you looked up and said the words you’ve dreaded. They didn’t burn, they fall from your lips like honey.

“I’m yours utterly. Say the word and I’ll do it. You only have to speak.” And you unzipped his trousers. No underwear. So his penis flexed out to meet you. “Holy fuck,” you murmured.

“Nothing holy about it. Shit, what are you – uh…” Crowley’s whole body stiffened as you close your mouth over the glans, gently rolling your tongue around the head of his penis. He tasted of salt and burnt toffee. You leaned forward to take him deeper into your mouth but he pushed you away.

“No, sweetheart. All in good time. Bed. Now!”

You must have been overwhelmed because there is a mild pop in your ears and the next thing you were aware of, you are lying in bed. The fireplace had been lit and casts dancing shadows across the man next to you. Sweet Jesus. He was completely naked and looking at you with unmistakable hunger. A large warm hand rested on your waist and you realised that at some point you’d lost your underwear, too.

He pulled you closer and your bodies touch. It had been so long since anyone hugged you that your skin prickled and sparked on contact and you moaned at the sensation. Crowley’s body was hot and you felt dizzy with desire.

His penis prodded your stomach as Crowley pulled you in for a kiss. There was nothing chaste about it this time. His lips moved roughly against yours, and his tongue delved into your mouth while his hands began caressing your sides, grasping at your hips and grinding his body against yours. You felt like you were drowning as one hand snaked up to caress your breasts. He gently tweaked one nipple, then stroked the underside of the other and you had no rational thought left except that you’d do anything to please this man. He broke from the kiss, propping up his head so he could study your face.

“How would you like it? Do you want to ride me? Doggy style? Or are you a traditionalist who prefers missionary? I don’t care, my love, as long as I get to come inside you.”

“I… uh… I don’t mind. Whatever you want,” you muttered, embarrassed by how frank his words were. You hardly had the experience to have a ‘favourite’ position and you were surprised that he didn’t want to wait for heat before vaginal sex. Maybe he forgot? Should you remind him?

“Um Crowley, you know I can’t conceive before heat, right? If you want to breed me, you’ll have to wait for that… stuff.”

“Gah, babies. Nasty, noisy, inconvenient things. What I really want is to feel your pussy tightening around my cock. Are you ready?”

You nodded feverishly. “Yes, please” you breathe.

“You shouldn’t say that, love.”

You tried to keep your voice from quavering as you asked, “Why not?”

Sitting up on the bed he pulled you to him, “Cause I’m not sure if I can restrain myself enough not to tear you.” You let out a gasp of combined fright and desire. Crowley was practically purring at the dazed expression on your face, “You look absolutely edible, you know.” Turning his head, he started to nuzzle the sensitive skin on your neck, making you simultaneously moan and giggle. The giggle turned into a yelp as he rolled over so that you were lying on top of him.

“Are you a good Omega?” he teased with a feral grin. “Assume the submission pose”. You blushed as you realised where this was going, which only made his grin more hungry. You knelt over his body, your knees on either side of his hips so his erection slid across the entrance to your vagina. Straddling him, the sound and smell of ripe sexuality were devastating and you closed your eyes.

You shuddered slightly as his thumb rubbed gentle circles around your clitoris, unable to stop yourself from rocking backwards and forwards. A light slap on your arse made your eyes fly open.

“Look at me. Say my name when you come. It is me and no one else. Say my name.”

“Crowley,” you gasped as he pushed into you slowly, giving you time to get used to his width and length. He let you set a shy pace at first, one hand wandering over your breasts whilst the other continues its inexorable stimulation of your core. His erection was huge and even with slow, gentle movement, it was almost painful to rock down and feel him fill you up. You started to relax against the long unfamiliar feel of intercourse, drifting inevitably towards orgasm. You felt yourself edging and he grasped your hips, holding you still while he thrust hard into you. He drove himself into your wetness unmercifully. You felt his ejaculation as he grunted his release. His hard eyes glittered as his continued to rub your clitoris.

“Crowley! Crowleycrowleycrowley. Oh God... Crow-LEE!” You shuddered and arched backwards, climaxing hard and trying to pull away from the thumb that continued to stroke your now over-sensitive nub.

“Look at me. Say my name,” he panted and you pitched forward, resting your hands on his shoulders. Your whole body was spasming now, your hips jerking back and forth under his ministrations.

“Crowley,” you wheezed out, holding his gaze and his thumb finally stopped. Sobbing with relief you collapsed forward into his embrace.

“Good girl”, he said. “Sleep now.”

At some point in the night, he must have got up and left, but the bed was soft and warm and you were absolutely shattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really struggled with writing a sex scene that where Crowley was cruel but tender. Any resemblance to the gorgeous 'London nights' by amateur_assassin (http://archiveofourown.org/works/4639500) is NOT coincidental.


	5. Freedom is in the fine print

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Typical Alpha, he’d used the product with reading the instructions.

Over the next few days, Crowley had sex with you in all the positions he mentioned, plus a few more. It was just as well you attended yoga at the sanatorium. You had no idea your legs could be spread that wide or indeed hooked over a shoulder while he plowed into you. You were often left bruised by your encounters, but he didn’t seem to enjoy causing pain. He was just obsessed with claiming you. He liked you to climax, but it wasn't vital. He liked to hear his name as he came, and you obliged with a whisper or with a shriek, depending on how much oxygen you had access to.

He seemed especially fond of fucking you from behind, bending you over tables, chairs and the kitchen bench to give himself deep penetration. Sometimes he liked to do foreplay, sometimes he’d just ram himself in with barely a warning. Since he hardly gave you 8-10 hours between sessions, you were usually still lubricated with his ejaculate from your last encounter. With the amount of sperm he was delivering to your cervix, you’d be lucky to come into heat again for months.

He graciously allowed you to give him head, but wasn’t much interested in returning the favour. He liked to direct your actions, “Now suck, now use your tongue, lick my balls,” and so on. You spent hours on your knees one way or another. It was kind of satisfying in an abject sex-kitten sort of way. You didn't want to like it as much as you did.

Strangely he didn’t want to  **Claim**  claim you. He liked to nibble or kiss your neck, inhaling your scent, but stopped short of the final step: scarring your neck with his teeth. You wondered why he didn’t want to mark you as bonded, but you were so busy trying to adjust to his mercurial moods and anticipate his needs that it hardly occurred to you to question him.

The first conversation about anything other than sex happened about 4 days in, when you brought a lunch of cheese, crackers and condiments into the lounge room. While you were foraging in the incredibly well-stocked fridge, he had rediscovered the paperwork he got when he claimed you.

“This book is great!” Crowley said, smirking, engrossed in the manual that Dereck had given him. He eyed you over the top. You could tell he was baiting you. The cover proudly proclaimed it to be “Controlling and Successfully Breeding Your Omega: A Guide for Alphas”.

Typical Alpha, he’d used the product without reading the instructions.

“Look, it says here that Omegas don’t like to be pushed mentally, and that I should refrain from taxing you with heavy conversation. Oh, my poor little Omega, don’t try to use your brain, you might sprain it!”

You growled and tried to rip the book from his hands, which obviously led to wrestling and kissing and fevered hands seeking and rubbing and urgently removing clothing. Later you noticed that it had fallen under the sofa, Central Government Authority logo side up.

Good, you had plans for that book.

It became clear that he wasn’t much interested in eating or sleeping or any mundane tasks at all. He was above such routine matters, though he did drink Scotch. His home seemed to be run by incredibly discreet staff. Occasionally you’d hear a vacuum cleaner being run or noticed that the dishwasher had been unloaded, and your bed linen was changed daily, but you never actually caught anyone doing these tasks. It has to be said you were somewhat distracted, though.

He liked you to be close by wherever he was. He spent a lot of time on his computer in his study and would regularly shout abuse at unfortunate employees via phone. Maybe he liked having an audience? Sometimes there was real danger in his voice. You pitied the poor staffer who did not meet his expectations. You’d sit near him when he was in his office, reading books from his eclectic library and trying to get a gauge on the man while his attention was elsewhere. Mostly you just learned a lot of new swear words (apparently, someone called Castiel was a weasel-headed fucknugget who couldn’t win an egg-and-spoon race). His work seemed to be in insurance, contracts, sub-clauses and time parameters featuring regularly in his conversations with underlings.

If he noticed you between bouts of concentration, he might caress your cheek briefly and go back to what he was doing, or encourage more intimacy. You banged you head twice in the same spot giving him head from under his desk.

On day 6 Crowley announced that he had matters to attend to and would be leaving. He seemed energised and distracted. He held you at arms length as if suspicious that you’d attempt to pull him back. When you calmly accepted his announcement, he seemed slightly put out, as if disappointed that you weren’t going to make his life difficult by crying.

It was hard to know what exactly he wanted from you. He was a very strange Alpha. Then again, you weren’t exactly a model Omega.

Okay. Time to ask.

“Um, Crowley, when you said you’d give me freedom, what exactly did you mean? I know you don’t want me outside the grounds of your house, but you haven’t really given me any other guidelines. Can I have friends to visit? Will you let me use the internet? What do I do for money?”

“I already gave you freedom. You had the freedom to choose anyone you wanted at the Matching.” There was something reptilian in his face as he challenged you. Omegas aren’t meant to be able to get mad with their Alphas but this is so unfair you felt a stab of annoyance.

“You  **did not**  give me a choice! That whole thing with the raspberry ice cream was a trick to make me ingest your saliva so my body would be oriented to you later.”

“Clever girl.” But Crowley seemed unimpressed that you figured it out.

“I had a Master's in Biology and Behavioural Science before I presented as Omega. It wasn’t exactly the cunning plan of a criminal mastermind,” you spluttered. “Maybe I should have chosen one of those boys you warned me against. Maybe they would have kept their word and given me some freedom.”

Too late, you saw that his habitual look of self-satisfaction had darkened.

“No. You wouldn’t have chosen them. Omegas can only choose someone who they are compatible with. They would have smelt as bad to you as they do to me.”

“Well, they didn’t.” His anger had made you reckless. “They smelt nice.”

His expression now could only be described as predatory. “Say that again.” His voice was dripping with menace.

“They smelt nice,” you muttered mutinously to the carpet.

“Come here.”

_Oh shit._

“Bend over. Show me that pink arse.”

Oh God, what was he going to do? He looked like he might be capable of anything. With shaking hands, you pulled off your yoga pants and stepped out of your underwear. You swallowed noisily as you looked from Crowley to the arm of the arm of the sofa that was pointing to.

“Don’t make me ask again.” He seemed calm, but you could smell aggression boiling off him. It didn’t take long for you to identify sulphur in the air. That didn’t make you feel safer.

You felt incredibly vulnerable with your bare arse in the air while a fully clothed and very angry Crowley stood over you. He lightly stroked your lower back and let his hands drift over the curve of your buttocks. You shuddered and whimpered even though he hadn’t hurt you – yet. The threat seemed very real when you heard his low voice.

“Tell me again. You could have chosen one of the Winchester boys but you chose me instead. Why?”

“It was impossible for me not to. You overwhelmed them. I couldn’t look away. It was you my body reacted to. I wanted you. Only you. Always you.” You were babbling as his hand increased friction, changing from light strokes to hard grabs of your soft flesh. You realised that this was actually turning you on, scary as it was. Crowley’s leg nudged your thighs apart.

“Good girl. But I still think you deserve to be punished. And I think,” suddenly he plunged a finger into your vagina. “I think you want to be punished. This is making you wet, isn’t it? Tell me you want this.”

“I... I... I want this,” you choked out, still not quite sure what ‘it’ even was.

So the first slap had you gasping with shock and squeaking. He ran his hand over what must have been a large red handprint at the top of your thigh. The next slap came higher and then he switched to the other cheek, lightly caressing you between each spank. Your whole body jumped with each impact and you couldn't tell what was more exciting: the slap or the anticipation.

“I won’t share you,” Crowley said, his voice deceptively calm. You knew there was steel beneath the velvet. “I’m going to fuck you hard now and you are going to enjoy it. You’ll say my name when you come and you’ll think of me every time you sit down for the next week.”

The hand that had been caressing the inflamed skin of your arse slipped between your legs and two fingers slid up on either side of your clitoris. You moaned and rocked against his hand. You were dimly aware that he was loosening his belt and unzipping his fly. Abruptly he withdrew his hand and you hissed at the loss. Both hands grabbed your hips and pulled you away from the couch. His hard penis ran over your vulva, slick with the wetness you were producing and you ground yourself back against him. His pubic hair felt like wire against the smarting skin of your arse. But God! You wanted him inside you so badly you welcomed the sensation.

“Please Crowley. Please, please, please,” you begged.

“Please what?” he said and you could tell that he wasn’t as cool as he pretended. He was breathing just as hard as you.

“Take me. Fuck me. Please fill me up!” You were blithering again, but Crowley didn’t need a gilt-edged invitation. He used one hand to guide himself in and the other reached around to stroke your clitoris. You squeezed, panicking at the harshness of his lower body pushing against your inflamed cheeks, but then relaxed and flexed out as his skilled fingers worked you into panting incoherence.

Two strong thrusts and he was fully embedded in you. There was nothing gentle about this. He wanted to satisfy himself and you were just along for the ride. He was in so deep, and he didn’t have any intention of pulling out until he was done. The thrusts were short, hard and increased in pace until you were jerking back and forth, panting. His fingers were almost brutal but you were completely caught up in the tormenting pleasure of the moment, welcoming his dominance. He came with a series of grunts, but continued to drive himself into you as you tipped over the edge, propelled as much by the primal satisfaction of knowing you made him come as by the fingers whose harsh pressure had gentled to slow strokes.

“Crowley,” you sobbed into the sofa. “Crowley”.

Somehow you ended up  _on_  the sofa rather than bent over one of its arms, spooning against Crowley’s body as he kissed the back of your neck.

“Little Omega, have you learnt your lesson? Or do you need a reminder?” he whispered. You wriggled closer, not sure what to say. Enjoyable as it was, you were not sure you would actually survive another bout of sex as intense as the last 5 minutes. You weren’t wholly convinced you could actually walk right now.

“You know, Gabriel promised me that you’d give me what I want. I’m not sure that you make me ‘happy’ but you do satisfy,” he said cryptically. “Alright, my dear, you can have your freedom. Visitors, internet and a line of credit. Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t like.”

And then he was gone, leaving you sticky and bemused on the couch. You hoped his house elves could clean the mess out of the cushions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not North American. To me 'ass' equals donkey. So I'm using 'arse'.
> 
> Sorry really struggling with next chapter, please expect a delay. Tis hard to get it out of my head and onto paper without tripping.


	6. Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He might be the centre of your world, but you are not nearly as important to him.

Crowley’s house wasn’t huge, but there were empty rooms. He said you shouldn’t do anything he wouldn’t like but you were pretty sure he’d be okay with you setting up a study in the smallest. The first thing you did when you bought yourself a computer was to type up a list.

Things Crowley likes:

  * boy knickers (black pref)
  * Glencraig whisky
  * Fucking me from behind
  * Shouting at  ~~staff~~ everyone
  * Making up new swear words
  * Being possessive
  * Not the Winchester brothers



… and then you stopped. You still hardly knew anything about the man.

You look him up on LinkedIn. It  _said_  he was a Literary Agent with an office in New York. You snorted. The world of publishing must be VERY cut-throat if his phone conversations were anything to go by. Downright bloodthirsty.

The second thing you did was start typing out those notes you’d saved from the sanatorium,  _Controlling and Successfully Breeding Your Omega: A Guide for Alphas_  on the floor next to you. You had a cunning plan, worthy of someone who’d won the University prize for the thesis she presented for her Master’s. Maybe you weren’t a criminal mastermind, but you knew a thing or two about setting the cat amongst the pigeons.

After a day of crouching on the floor, you decided Crowley wouldn’t like you to get sore knees in anything but servicing him, so you ordered yourself a table and ergonomic chair, using the credit card he’d left for you.

Slowly, you started to establish a routine in Crowley’s home. He didn’t text or call you, so you were left to figure it out for yourself. Every morning you went for a run. A forest bordered the property on three sides. It seemed like a natural forest rather than timber plantation, and you couldn’t identify much beyond the dense fir trees. The forest floor was dark, deeply shaded by the growth above and littered with dead wood, cushioned in brown-green moss and poisonous-looking fungi. There didn’t seem to be any discernible paths and the lack of birdsong made it seem forlorn and forbidding. You were content to run the grassy perimeter of the grounds with a trio of dogs who follow you just out of sight. Crowley’s guard dogs, like the household servants, seemed to be very shy.

The first time you heard them behind you, you were honestly quite frightened. Judging from their deep pants and gruff woofs, they were large animals, and it felt like you were being hunted when they chased you. They never got close enough to see or touch, though you sometimes imagined you could feel their humid breath on your abdomen. Fuck, how big were they? You didn’t really get a concept of their size until the day you fell. It had been raining, and the ground was slippery. Dodging between the roots of the trees that line the driveway, you tripped and landed awkwardly, skinning your knee. At first, you just lay there, trying to get your breath and then sat up, concentrating on not crying. When you sat up, you realised that the warm furry shape next to you was one of the dogs, completely invisible. This was obviously a trick of the light. The impossible dogs waited until you could stand and escorted you back to the front door, which swung open as you reached it. No one was waiting for you, but antiseptic and a dressing were laid out in your bathroom. Creepy but convenient.

After a while, you realised that it was easier for the very unobtrusive staff to clean up, restock the fridge, change the linen and generally do their stuff if you just left the house, rather than them having to lurk discreetly around corners waiting for you to get out of the way. So even if it was raining, you went to the garage and talked to the dogs each morning. They liked to snuffle your hands and if you didn’t turn on the light, it was easy to imagine you could see their bodies as well as hear and feel them. Of course, the scientific part of your mind knew that this was completely irrational, but it seemed easier to just accept the situation rather than try to puzzle out an explanation of something that clearly could not be happening. Giving them names helped to make them more real, so you started calling them Shadow, Mist and Smut.

Crowley showed up intermittently and generally has you undressed as soon he arrived. He’d visit twice in the space of a week and then leave you alone for a fortnight. Sometimes it was a fleeting visit; you’d be asleep and his familiar scent would fill your nose as you felt the mattress depress, and his warm hands moved on your body. In the morning, only the puddle of semen on the bed sheets was evidence that he was there at all. Other times, he’d stay with you for days on end, apparently pleased to have you in his home, working on your laptop in his office while he shouted at his unfortunate employees. (Literary agent, my arse!) And then he would be gone again, energised and distant. He might be the centre of your world, but you were not nearly as important to him.

Once, after a three-week absence you asked him to make sure he didn’t stay away too long and he seemed annoyed by the request.

“Why the concern? I’ll come to you when I want to. Isn’t that what freedom is all about? You can’t tie me down, pet,” he said almost resentfully. It was a delicate balance, trying to let him know that you appreciated his companionship without sounding needy. And despite your enthusiasm for sex with Crowley, it somehow still felt embarrassing to say out loud how much you wanted him physically.

“It’s just that I don’t want to go through heat without you,” you managed to mumble out.

“Oh please,” he sounded a bit revolted by the idea, which made you flush with embarrassment. It was bad enough being ashamed of your own cycle without having him disgusted, too. And it was so irritating! Alphas were supposed to LOVE the idea of an Omega panting for sex with them.

“Don’t try to make me into the father of your children. I’m not the paternal kind.” He seemed actively annoyed by the idea. God! It was difficult negotiating with a man who made basic biology so complicated. Why did he even attend the Matching if he didn’t want children? Just to thwart his rivals?

Inevitably, he left you alone too long and you got anxious as your pre-heat symptoms built with no sign of him. Not that he ever gave you warning of his visits. You didn’t have a number you could call or even an email address to contact him. Once it became clear that you were on the eve of your first day, you desperately reached out to his theoretical workplace: the literary agency in New York. There was only an answering machine on the listed phone number where a snooty female discouraged you from leaving a message. Your short email (‘Please call me’) got an auto-response thanking you for you for considering Crowley & Associates, assuring you that they would get back to you once they had a chance to consider your work. Useless.

It was going to happen. You woke in the morning feeling achy and hot. Already sticky viscous clear liquid was draining out of you. You wanted to cry knowing how desperate the next 48 hours would leave you. Instead, you stumbled to the shower and washed off the egg white that was pooling between your legs. There was no point in wearing knickers, so you sat on a folded up towel and tried to type out a few paragraphs of work, but it was hopeless; you had no concentration. All you could think about was how much you wanted a man coming inside you. A cock pumping you full of glorious, wonderful spunk. Of course the face of the man in your fantasies was always Crowley. But thinking about him, longing for him, calling out to him did not make him appear. Day two was as bad as it had ever been for you. Masturbation got you nowhere. You edged, but there was no orgasm. An innocent zucchini was sacrificed to your urges. Nothing helped. It felt like you were floating on a tidal wave of your own desperation and slick. By the evening of day 2, you groggily realised that you weren’t getting better. Things should have been easing up, but sweat was still pouring off your body. In a brief moment of lucidity, you saw that it was raining outside. You stumbled drunkenly to the front door and collapsed on the gravel driveway, feeling chilled on the outside but still burning up internally.

You just wanted to be unconscious so you didn’t have to feel so nauseated and overwhelmed.  _This must pass._  It always had in the past. Dazed, you let yourself relax on the ground, hearing the dogs whining around you. A hiss of cold breath from something else briefly woke you from your stupor and you called out to Crowley hopefully, weeping when you realised it wasn’t him. Scaly cold hands with pointed claws lifted you into the house. It was dark and you were half out of your mind, but even though you could not see who it was, you recognised the presence. You’d been living with them for six months… the beings holding you were Crowley’s servants. They silently carried you back to your room, pressing a glass of water to your mouth and then lay you down on cool, clean sheets and rolled you onto your stomach. A sibilant whisper, more like the sound of dead leaves than a voice, commanded you to “Ssssleep,” and ungentle hands (claws?) roughly pressed down on your spine and neck, sending you into blessed unconsciousness. Either they stayed with you all night, pressure pointing you into merciful oblivion, or you dreamed that they did. It was like being cared for by a T-Rex; something that could eat you but which has decided not to.

When you woke in the morning, you were shaky and dehydrated, but no longer in the grip of heat. It was the worst it had ever been for you. Typical Crowley. Being matched to an Alpha was supposed to save you from this, but he seemed to have made your heat worse than ever. Hollowed out and trembling, you walked to the kitchen and tried to drink something to make you feel slightly more human. It was like a hangover from the days when you still drank alcohol.

“My poor little Omega, was it so bad for you? Did you cry for me?” When you woke again, Crowley was sitting on the bed looking down on you. His hand briefly caressed your face. If you didn’t know better you’d have thought he was being sympathetic.

You wanted to throw yourself against his chest and beg him to never leave you to suffer like that again, but you were pretty sure that this would make him withdraw even more so you reply in kind. “It was bad.”

A ripple of some indecipherable emotion passed across his face, and he sighed as if you’d made an unreasonable demand. “I am busy. My work keeps me away. I have another world to take care of,” he stated as if challenging you to contradict him, so you didn’t. Instead, you reached up to his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. Physical contact was much easier than debating his priorities. His body agreed.

Later in his office, he complained that your scent was distracting him from his work.

“I can’t switch off my Omega hormones. It’s written into my DNA. It is as impossible as  _you_  willing your eyes to change colour.”

“Really,” he said dryly, not giving anything away. “Ordinary is for ordinary people, my dear. I’m sure a clever girl like you can work something out.”

That night, amino acids and DNA sequences bloomed in your dreams, twisting, locking and unlocking in spiral patterns. You woke up giddy and itching to get to work.


	7. Care and Maintenance of Betas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is something very… disobedient about this.

Sighing, you straightened your shoulders and looked up from the computer screen. The manuscript was all but finished. It felt good to get all your bitterness out on paper, squared away in tables and behavioural analysis of Beta responses to stimuli. You knew it wasn’t completely fair that you’d used the sanatorium staff as lab rats, but you felt it was poetic justice to turn the tables on them. All the time they thought they’d been analysing you, you had been examining them. Your book would crash and burn quite a few cherished fairy tales about Betas. It just needed a publisher. If only you knew someone in the industry…

Rather than sitting by the door and waiting for Crowley to turn up, you wanted a project and his words had given you an inspiration. If Alpha semen on an Omega cervix would delay heat, perhaps it had other applications. Maybe there was a way of replicating the effect without the pesky business of needing an Alpha nearby to deliver the semen as required. And this thought led to others. Current research focussed solely on Omega pheromones as the key to fertility, but Omegas were only receptors for Alphas. What if the secret to breaking the fertility drought wasn’t in Omegas but in the Alphas?

More importantly, would Crowley’s credit extend to setting up a lab in the front room? Only one way to find out.

Turned out Crowley’s credit card could buy you a mini laboratory of your own. He seemed entertained that you were going to experiment with Alpha semen, and readily agreed to supply you with samples. Predictably, he wanted to make his donations via your mouth, which contaminated their purity somewhat. _Snort._ As if anything associated with Crowley could be considered pure.

His visits remained erratic, but it was always a pleasure to see him, feel him, have the warm comfort of his presence for however long he could spare. At least with a supply of semen, you weren’t cast into the agonies of heat without any relief. Remembering his opinion of children, you made sure to use only refrigerated infertile semen.

You started to have visitors: your parents came for a weekend and seemed subdued by the size and isolation of the house and its absent owner. Sarah, your sanatorium roommate, came in a private car, with two small children and a third growing in her; she was disappointed that you were not joining her on the pregnancy roundabout, but tactful enough not to mention your failure to conceive. Abby, your sister, visited briefly for lunch while your parents were staying and tried valiantly to remain upbeat, but it was obvious that the strain of repeated unsuccessful IVF treatments was taking its toll.

It felt almost like safe domestic security, until one day Crowley surprised you at your workbench. You were hovering over a microscope when a publisher’s proof of your book was slammed down onto the desk beside you. You jumped and tried to spin around to meet Crowley, but a powerful hand on your shoulder held your body facing forwards.

“Care to explain?” Crowley’s voice purred into your ear. Without being able to see his face, it was hard to tell if he was angry or amused.

“It’s my book,” you said. The cover, stating ‘ _Care and Maintenance of Betas: A Guide for Omegas_ by Anon’ stared back at you, not giving you any clues as to Crowley’s reaction.

“I guessed it was you. There is something very… disobedient about this, which reminded me strongly of a certain Omega.”

Hmmm, that sounded almost admiring. But the next words were hissed.

“Why the **fuck** is it being published by the Winchesters?”

Oops.

“Your office in New York submitted my work to them. Someone called Talbot said that my book would fit in well amongst their hunting and survival guides. I haven’t talked to them myself. Your office has handled everything.” You hoped you didn’t sound as nervous as you felt.

“Ha, that sounds like Bela. She has a nose for mischief almost as good as yours. Make sure you don’t talk to the Winchesters and I’ll let you off this time”. But he was rubbing himself against your backside now, so his words had no sting.

“You, my dear, are a very naughty girl. I thought Omegas were all sweetness and light? I might need to teach you a lesson.”

You groaned and rubbed back. You could feel his erection through your jeans. There was no point in arguing when there were much better ways to put him in a good mood.

Crowley reached around your body and started undoing the buttons on your shirt. Dizzying desire rushed through you as his breath, mouth and teeth worked your shoulder and neck. His hands were on your breasts, teasing your nipples through the thin fabric of your bra. He took a break from nipping your bare shoulder to murmur in your ear.

“Tell me you want this. Say it.”

“God. Yes. Want this. I want you, Crowley.” There was a flush of heat and moisture already building inside you.

Hearing his name had its usual effect. A satisfied growl, as one greedy hand snaked down from your breast to undo the button and fly of your jeans. Warm digits slipped into your knickers, pinching your clitoris gently before descending to explore further. You writhed against him, trapped between his body and the desk in front of you, only remaining standing because his hands were holding you upright. Your legs were weak and all you were aware of was sensation. Between his mouth on your neck, one hand on your nipple and the other shoved into your pants, you were not capable of rational thought. He pressed hard against you, nudging his penis between the cheeks of your arse. You could feel its heat through your jeans. Meantime his fingers had settled into a steady rhythm over your clitoris.

He moved away briefly to claw your jeans halfway down your thighs and then he was back, carelessly shoving aside your damp knickers to push his erection into you. His hands braced your hips against the desk as the pace of thrusts increased. You couldn’t push back against him, all you could do was to let him ride you and feel the urgency of his desire and the pulse of pleasure inside you. Your legs were pinned together by the jeans jammed around your thighs. The fabric of your knickers was tight against your clitoris and you knew you were on the edge of coming, white hot starbursts behind your closed eyelids.

“Crowley. I need… oh God... please... need,” you whispered disjointedly into the desktop.

And then he was coming and you were tipped over the edge as he groaned and thrust two more times into you before collapsing against your back.

But not for long. Crowley didn’t do romantic afterglow. He was all business as he zipped himself away and growled into your ear, “Consider yourself warned.”

Was being left alone in a pool of his semen ever going to get old? Was that a warning or a promise?

The next morning, he was in the garage when you dropped off the dogs after your morning run. The dogs, now more visible, ran to Crowley and capered at his feet, begging to be patted and acknowledged.

“Have you really named my hellhounds like characters in an Enid Blyton book? You can’t call them Shadow, Mist and Smut! They are creatures of death; their howls are the harbingers of torment to the damned. They don’t have tea parties or wear bow ties. And **you** aren’t even meant to be able to see them.” For a moment you thought he was about to go into one of his suspicious rants, but he merely looked speculative.

“I can’t really see them; they are only in focus when you are here. But I feel them and hear them and when we run together, they flicker in my peripheral vision. I know them. They are brave and loyal and curious. But _ridiculously_ obedient.”

You saw his mouth quirk in amusement as he bent to attend to the dogs.

A card arrived, inviting you to the launch of your book, forwarded by Crowley & Associates. Winchester Hunting Tours was hosting a reviewer’s reception, though of course, the author of their latest guidebook remained anonymous. You could imagine the stir it would cause; the scientific community would try and refute your findings as unsound with no peer review and a limited sample group. But they, and the wider community, wouldn’t be able to reject some of the typical behavioural responses you detailed. People would recognise a truth they see every day, whether it was peer reviewed or not. You’d been testing for over 12 months; notes kept first behind a loose brick in the wall of the jogging circuit and later stashed behind a panel in your bedroom. Your research was sound.

The launch party was likely to descend into chaotic scenes as those present realised that the book wasn’t a parody. It would be hilarious to watch puffed up Betas angrily denying that they were anything like your characterisations. Alphas would laugh, and Omegas… Well, Omegas wouldn’t be present, would they? But they might giggle later if a copy ever fell into their hands.

Crowley twitched the invitation out of your hands as you stared at it, imagining the pandemonium your book might create. It would be fun to watch from another room or maybe through a fake mirror. If the Winchesters were anything near as devious as Crowley seemed to think, perhaps they’d have a secret hiding spot for visitors to their office?

“You are not thinking of attending this, are you?” He seemed unreasonably annoyed by the sight of the gold edged card.

“Of course not, you said I wasn’t to leave the grounds.”

“That’s right. And you are to have nothing, **nothing** to do with Dean or Sam Winchester. They are dangerous. Swear to me.”

“Crowley, you don’t need to ask. I’ll never do anything you wouldn’t like. I owe you that much. Trust me.”

He looked momentarily disconcerted but his attitude quickly switched to mockery “Trust?! Do you _looooove_ me, little Omega?”

Love? That wasn’t something you thought about. Love was for people with choices. His voice said he was being sarcastic, but something in the way he held his body made you think he was waiting to hear an answer.

“Crowley. I’m the Omega to your Alpha. You are my centre. I appreciate you. I enjoy your company. I love having sex with you.” You could see that this wasn’t enough. “You’ve given me so much. This house, the lab, research, the dogs. Everything. My loyalty is with you.”

It was the first time you’d seen him look surprised, but the urbane mask was quickly back in place.

“Careful, darling, don’t put me on a pedestal. I don’t have any virtues.” His eyes held yours for a moment and then his phone rang. And he went straight back to bellowing. “Bollocks, you cheeto-faced shit-gibbon!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because of course, Crowley wouldn’t have let Bela Talbot be tortured into demon-hood. She was already a nasty manipulative bitch when his hell-hounds collected her, and he admires those traits. Seems very likely to me he’d stash her in an alternate reality and bring her out to play wherever he needed someone with her skills.

**Author's Note:**

> This is turning out to be MUCH long than I thought! Many thanks to the wonderful TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG for being my beta.


End file.
